


Living death

by Thaum



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Trailer, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, References to Depression, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 05:26:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18046337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thaum/pseuds/Thaum
Summary: The Endgame Trailer - what happens right in that cut off scene when Natasha finds Clint in Japan? Natashas personal look back at the events between the end of Infinity War and then.Read Clints view here:Home





	Living death

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my first language. Be nice.

“Clint?”

Shocked to the core she stared at the ragged figure in front of her. She couldn’t care less for the bloody circumstances or the dead men on the ground. All that seemed to be in a fog around her and all that existed was their killer who froze to the spot as well as he heard her voice. He stood with his back to her, drenched by the pouring rain, a blade in his hand and three bodies at his feet. That back had carried her out of explosions, had taken the shot of a sniper for her in an incredible reflex and had been there to lean on when she needed it the most. She had patted it, hit it, massaged knots out of it, unintentionally burnt it and patched it up more times than she could count. She knew every inch of skin, had traced every scar on it, had admired every strong muscle beneath. All what he meant to her could be described in a single word: Budapest. That one night when everything had gone wrong and they had barely made it out. She had a little mark under her ribcage that would remind her of the bullet that had missed her heart only by millimetres. Remind her of the man who had shot it through her and straight into the head of the attacker behind to save her. Again. He had looked into her eyes when he had pulled the trigger and she had known it was a direct hit even when he had calculatingly missed her heart in the same move. He was Clint Barton. He never missed. Only later she had realized in equal parts of awe and a cold sweat that he had pulled this off with a dislocated shoulder. And really, they'd been both more dead than anything else when Coulson got them out. But all she remembered was Clint never leaving her side, his hand at the wound he had caused to stop the blood flow. And that nothing had ever felt more right. Yes, she would have known the back in question anywhere. She would have died to have it anytime.

He turned to her now, slowly to look at her without a word. Hesitant. Haunted. Natasha pressed a hand at her mouth as a sob escaped. Was this another one of her nightmares? Was she awake? Sometimes it was hard to tell. She swallowed more drugs on a regular basis than at her worst recovery phases only to be able to sleep for a few restless hours each night. She woke up every morning, all the same drenched in sweat and with a hollow feeling that told her, that she just couldn’t remember her dreams, but that they were there all the same, deep down inside her messed up head.

First she had teamed up with Steve to search restlessly for survivors, days and weeks to no end. The list of the dead had endlessly increased and increased. But she had hoped every new dreadful day, she had prayed - though she didn’t believe in religions of any kind - and she had slowly taken over Steves resposibilities, tried to reorganize what was left. It had been indescribably painful to watch Bucky turn into ashes, to pull Steve out of it when he didn't get up. But it had been far worse to witness him turn into even less than that, every new day that passed. It was far worse to see Pepper listen to an almost incomprehensible good-bye message from Tony who would never return. Far worse to look into the empty eyes of Thor who didn’t speak anymore to anyone and often seemed to find the will to live only because he was literally too angry to die. The sky had been full of dark clouds and it had rained every day ever since as if he couldn't stand to see the sun ever again. She couldn't really blame him. After one of his repeating rages - in which he had accidentally burnt down half a national park - he had finally left and taken that strange racoon with him. Nobody knew why they went or where. Nobody asked.

Weeks had turned to months and she had helplessly tried to talk to the hollow shell Steve had become, to get through to him. It had been to no avail. The only time she'd gotten a reaction was when he noticed she had taken the munition out of his locker. He had laughed, a terrible harsh sound without any trace of humour and she had added him quietly to her list of people they had lost. As if he needed a gun to end it all. As if there was still anything left that could be ended. But she had still refused to crumble, she had waited, she had hoped. She had called and texted everybody she knew. She had found a few former S.H.I.E.L.D. colleagues. But Fury was gone. Maria was gone. Clint had been missing. She had so much more than Steve and Thor and everybody else. Hope. He didn’t answer her. He didn’t use their secret communication ways. But she had refused to believe he was gone as well. She hadn’t had the guts to drive to Iowa to look for him for three whole months because she had dreaded certainty. She wanted to hope, she needed it. It was all she had left. When she'd finally knocked at his door and found nothing but dust, toys on the floor and starved chicken in the backyard, she had still not believed the worst. She had still told herself, that he was somewhere out there, that he would come back. It was not until the moment, when she had found his bow under his bed, when that last hope had shattered into thousand pieces along with what had kept her together all the time. He would never have left his bow behind.

She remembered collapsing right there and then to cry for the first time since the snap. She had clinged to the beloved weapon of her best friend, her saviour, the closest thing she ever had to a family, and had cried like she never cried before her whole life. She cried until there were absolutely no tears left. Until she felt totally numb and as empty as Thors and Peppers and Steves and everybody elses eyes looked. Then she’d gotten up, had carefully wrapped the bow with that stupid Snoopy shirt she hated so much and after looking for five minutes at a photograph of both of them at one of Tonys elaborate birthday parties, she had taken that as well to put it into a pocket inside of her jacket, close to her heart and all it scars. Then she had left the farmhouse, closed the door and another chapter of her life and had never looked back again. It was the only way to go on. The only way she knew.

And now he stood there, risen from the dead, risen out of the depth she had buried his memories in and she felt like all the world would crush down on her again like the day she had found his bow. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t breath, she couldn’t do anything. She dropped her umbrella and put both of her uncontrollably trembling hands over her mouth. This was too much.

“Oh my God.” Her voice broke and she hated herself for it, hated the shaking of her treacherous body and the physical pain somewhere in her chest, hated to feel as if the bullet went through her once again. She was the black widow, a cold hearted killer, feared and fearless. She never cried in front of anybody, at least him. There was no weakness in her. None but one.

“Oh my God.” For another five seconds she didn't move while she fought with self control. Then she gave in, took the few steps between them and threw herself into his arms. She buried her head at his neck and cried openly, didn't care anymore if he would see it. Clint seemed to be paralyzed at first but pulled her finally near and held her. “Tasha.” Her name on his lips at her ear sounded strange, somehow like a prayer and hoarse. It was the most beautiful thing she ever heard.

“Oh my God.” she sobbed,  “I thought you were dead.” He smelled different, but still familiar and she wished she could just stay there forever and forget about all the shit that had happened and all of their fucked up lives. Just be in peace in his arms and never let go of each other again. But she knew that was childish. There could never be a greater promise than the moment. That’s how it had always been. That's how it would always be. She wiped her face with her sleeve and sniffed while she studied his features. He looked worn out and tired. She put her hand at his cheek and he covered it with his, held it there, his eyes at her face.

“Where have you been? Why didn’t you let me know that you’re alive..?”

He shook his head. “I.. couldn’t. I am sorry.. I just.. I couldn’t.”

"You _couldn't_..?" The utter relief started to mix with anger. Disbelief. Pain. Betrayal. A thousand things she didn't know how to handle. "That's it? You couldn't? Don't you think you owe me more than that?"

He looked as hurt and lost as she felt, the shimmering blade still in his hand, he himself oddly out of place in this foreign location. She wanted to comfort him and punch him with all her strength the same time. “Do you know how long I searched for you?" Her fists decided for the second option when they hit his chest with full force and God, it felt good. It felt so damned good. He took a step back to not lose his balance. No, she wouldn't let him pull away like that. How could he have dared to leave her, as if she meant nothing. How dared he to come back, as if she meant nothing.

"I thought you were dead." She whispered. "You rather let me think you're dead than leave a message somewhere? One simple ' _I am okay, don't look for me._ '? Is that really asked too much?"

It was all back again and she couldn't handle it. She would make him feel what she felt. Make him pay for everything. Somebody had to pay for it, right?

“How dare you do this to me _you fucking asshole_! I cried myself to sleep every night for almost a year!”

“Tasha.” His voice sounded pleading and still hoarse, as if he hadn’t used it for a long time.

“Tasha, I am sorry, I.. there was no other way.. I cannot believe you’re really here.. why are you here?” He pushed her a little away and touched her hair as if to see if she would vaporize into thin air. She hit his hand away. 

“I show you how real I am, you idiot!” She hissed and hit him again. “Come on coward, fight back! You hurt everybody who cared for you and you didn't give a fuck! Don't pretend you do it now! After all, it's so convinient to be a selfish git, isn't it? Come on, fight me! _Fight me!_ ” She put all frustration and pain in a punch at his face but he just took it and watched her outburst silently.

She had raised her arm another time but he gripped it mid-air and stopped it.

“I will let you beat me up if that's what you want, but don't ask me to hurt you even more because I won't do it. I never wanted that." She blinked at him and he let her arm go. "I thought it might be better if you thought me dead. Some part of me is. The Hawkeye you knew is. You won't like what is left anyway when I tell you what I've done here all the time," he gestured around.

Natasha looked closely at the dead men for the first time. She knew her partners handwriting. Deadly, minimalistic, painless. He did what was necessary and didn't enjoy it. This here very much matched at least the first criteria, because these men were really very much dead. They had no choice considering the way their guts and in one case brains were splattered around them. They were ripped out of wounds you got when you twisted the blade while pulling it out. It was used to cause maximal damage without killing immediately. It was used to cause terror. People didn't just die, they watched their inner organs outside of their body while they bled out. She felt slightly nauseatic and swallowed before she looked back again at the dripping wet man who had done all of this. Once they had shared concerns about the red at their ledger. Now it seemed he had left that point behind. Once she would have been disgusted. Now she found she didn't care the way she probably should. Nothing was as it used to be. Maybe some part of her had died, too. She was tired.

"If you think you can get rid of me that easily again, you're wrong. I don't say I approve of this but I know you good enough to know you have your reasons. As far as I'm concerned you can sell drugs at the elementary school at day and worship Satan at night. I won't run away from you. You saved me Clint. You had trust in me when nobody else had. And I for some reasons that escape me, trusted you back then, I still do. Please, let me. I won't leave and pretend you've died as you obviously try to pretend yourself. You’ve been dead long enough. And I am not losing you again.”

"Tasha." He had reached out for her again and wiped tears and rain with his thumb off her face. "I have missed you so much."

It wasn’t exactly a valid argumentation point and she wasn't really prepared as he dropped his sword and crushed his lips on hers in midst the rain, a pool of blood around their feet. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't tender. It was Budapest all over again: raw, desperate and - despite all just made promises - it hurt. But damn him, it was the first thing that felt real since three wretched years. It took the terrible void, the numbness and made her _feel_ again. And so she kissed him back, almost violently, held onto him for both of their lives. Nothing had ever felt that right.

Whatever had happened, they could go on from this. Together.


End file.
